Happiness in Hatred
by Shadow Sanctuary
Summary: Starvation.Attempted suicide.Severe child abuse.How will Seto and Mokuba survive the wrath of their father?Will they even survive?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One: Eye of the Tiger

After a month of living here, I can feel the dull ache of bones protruding through my skin. I've watched my complexion change from peach, a kind of yellow-vanilla, white, and, finally, a sickly gray color that looks like the hide of a rat. If I stare too long at it, I can feel vomit push up through my throat. I have to try hard not to throw up. Doing so ejects the precious little food I've been given, and losing any particle will aggravate my condition. Unable to stand the sight of me, I toss the remaining dishes into the sink, not even watching to see if any glass breaks. Fortunately, none does. The echo of clattering plates and silverware follows me, as well as my embarrassed and shamed reflection.

I am now able to feel what I haven't before. Tears burning my eyes, I glance at my new source of pain. Both hands are burning, each throbbing and red like two gutted fish roasting over flames. I stare at them with disbelief and amazement, wondering why the flesh didn't melt away. A desperate cry surges through my veins, begging to be released, but I keep it down. The hurt was great, but the fear of showing weakness was greater. Admitting to misery only brought more on me. One time, my knife slipped while I was slicing vegetables for a Caesar Salad. The blade tore through a finger, and blood seeped through onto my work. Impulsively, I wailed, cradling my stinging wound with my good hand. That act won me nothing but a hard slap, much scolding, and new names to be called. Head down, biting back tears of sadness and frustration, I sought to comfort myself as I returned to the vegetables. The gash on my finger lay open and unattended to. Stroking the scar, my eyes trail the deep slit, my mouth careful not to walk that line again.

To distract myself, I glanced over the kitchen; hoping curiosity would override the soreness. It did. There were so many people; flitting and flying around me like nervous humming birds that seemed not to notice my standing here. Chefs screeched back and forth to each other, constantly asking if such-and-such dish tasted good, if it need more salt, pepper, sugar, spice, if the finished trays appeared well decorated or pleasing to the eyes. Occasionally, they would turn a flustered face to a bus boy or maid, instructing him or her to get them a certain utensil or remove a dish from their stations. Although the cooks were loud and mean to me, I had to admit that they were masters of their art. Everything they touched seemed to turn into a masterpiece, whether it was a beautiful tiered caramel chocolate cake or roast duck garnished with parsley and almonds. It all looked so good, so wonderfully delicious, but I had to remember that none of this was for me. I wouldn't have any nor would I be allowed to sample it for anyone. I was only a helper in this house, not a person with rank or power. Shoulders sagging at the thought, I left the chefs to scream orders at the hired help.

"Hey you!" I heard someone roar, drowning out the sounds of the kitchen. Freezing in mid-pace, my heart felt as if it had been turned to glass. Had I been caught slacking off on the job? Terror stricken, my eyes squeezed shut, anticipating my heart to be shattered with another hard slap.

"You!" the voice repeated, more forcefully, more angrily. "Hey, I'm talking to you! Get over here!"

Instantly obeying, I opened my eyes, scanning the place for the speaker. He had to be talking about me. He just _had_ to be. Who else gets talked to that way? Before my mind answers, my sight falls on a big, tall man by a group of sinks. Even across the room, I can tell he is quite mad and looks ready to go for someone's throat. At the moment I have no idea why he is so livid or what the problem is. All I know is when the lion roars, you start moving, no questions asked.

Long ago, I was told by the master of the house that I was at the bottom of the food chain here. No matter what I said or did, it would always be that way, like an impoverished Indian in the caste system. I am the lowly mouse that starves in the basement, who does not bathe, improve his looks, or even come out of the shadows. Most of the time, people here step around me, terrified that their rank could change to mine. Looks like that's about to change. Today, I get to scurry to the lair of the beast, beg and plead for no punishment, cry and moan my sorrows to uncaring ears. Today, my predator will scorn me, taunt my position, beat me into submission even though I am already subservient. And today, yet again, I will be threatened with dismissal, to be shipped out like an unwanted package back to the orphanage with my brother, left with harsh reminders that nobody could ever want or love us and that the world will eat us alive. Truthfully, we already know that. The lions here ravage our poor, sickly bodies everyday.

Prepared for the worst, I push myself to move, keeping my downcast eyes plastered to the tiles. As I walk, I pick out two squares that are missing some lining between them. A small hole peeks out at me like an inviting eye, motioning me towards it. Oh, if only I could become tinier than the crack and slip right through to the baseboards! That way, I wouldn't have to try and steal food or worry over being sent away. I could just live in the foundation of the mansion, sleeping on a nice, clean piece of wood while feasting on food dropped on the floor. And my brother could be there, too! We'd nestle side by side like two little baby birds, warm in our hugs, able to dream without constant chores and consequences being pressed on us. A wistful smile hangs on my face until I step over the gap, and then the happiness is gone, whisked away by cold reality and the impossibility of it all.

"Come on, already!" snaps the man. "I don't have all day!" His soup ladle cracks impatiently on steel, the same as I imagine it will do on my head.

Scared, I quicken my pace, hoping to satisfy him and lessen my punishment. Greens and fruits pass on my right, all to be used in appetizers or adornments for entrees. Close by, some maids are adjusting their uniforms, tying each other's aprons, fixing hair, checking long French nails for any scrapes or chips. They're all so old to me. The head waitress is fourteen. The rest are between eleven and thirteen. These are a batch of new girls sent from Master James from the Chirgmire Estate. They seem so happy now, chattering excitedly about their crushes and school work, make-up, things they want to buy and things they'd never wear. Idly, I wonder what they'll look like later on tonight. Will I still see them, or will they disappear like the other ones did, never to be seen or heard from again?

On the left, some pastry chefs argue about what glaze to use on Raspberry Danishes. One shouts strawberry, the other, white chocolate. Stress lines and levels run deep in their necks and foreheads, the veins about to burst between their eyes. Finally, the aggravation skyrockets so much that the one arguing for strawberry gives up, throwing the beautiful dessert into the trash. My stomach screams at the waste of food, lurches at the possibility of nourishment, but I ignore its aches and protests. The chefs sift through a flour dusted cookbook, resuming another quarrel of what baked good to make now. They both seem unhappy with whatever they choose. I would have been delighted with just a nibble of that Raspberry Danish.

"Come on!" the man continues to bellow, irritated as ever. "Come on, let's go!"

Almost there! I want to yell, but resist the urge to speak. Besides my brother, silence is my best friend, a trait I've come to value as a virtue. It is like my big brother, saving me from more trouble and other dilemmas I might get myself into by speaking-

"COME ON, COME ON, COME ON!"

-but it can only do so much. More desirable friends to have are willpower and self-control. The more you befriend them, the less you suffer. I, however, am reaching my wits end, so I am praying by the second for the strength to hold on to happy memories and play their movies in trying times. I'm hurrying, scurrying over the floor as fast as I can, trying so hard not to trip over any one or thing and just trying-

_Oh, God, no…_

-not to cry. Screeching to a halt, I realize that I wasn't the one being summoned. Heart rate running a marathon, I watch as my brother approaches the man, his little body trembling in fear as he complies with hasty demands. Soup ladle in one fist, the other palm open, the man smacks the utensil against his hand, irritability drumming a chaotic, tribal tune. The look in his brown eyes is not pleasant. They appear cold, cruel, dangerous, like a tiger on the hunt. He peers through a thicket of bamboo colored hair, his dark, dark eyes stalking the boy in front of them.

_Don't hit him, don't hit my brother, don't hit Mokie…_

The chant is frantic and panic ridden, but the gesture is useless. My brother, too frightened to move, cowers in the presence of his superior, his shoulders shaking like a palm tree in a hurricane. Any minute now, I suspect he'll cry. I am already crying. Driven by pure instinct to protect Mokuba and the last of our honor, I jump in front of my brother, prepared to shield him with courage.

"NO!" I bawl through my tears, "DON'T YOU HURT HIM! DON'T YOU HURT MY BROTHER!"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: Dream Catcher

When mother told me she loved me, that nothing would ever change her feelings, I believed her. Why would I think any differently? Her smiles and hugs were so soft and warm that I envisioned being wrapped in a woolly blanket, always rocked fast to sleep by a favorite lullaby and a kiss on the cheek. It made me happy to know that someone cared for me and wanted nothing but the best for my future. But now, as I stand in front of this man, his rage threatening to tear me apart, I doubt how true my mother's words really were. How could she do this to me? How could she promise everything would be all right when, in reality, it never was? How could she lie like that? More than that, how could she lie to me?

Seeing that the man wasn't going to back down, I softened my look. Teeth relaxed, lips uncurled, body limp, my stance went from an angry, rabid wolf to a poor, beaten puppy. Fixing my huge, malnourished eyes on him, I bring my hands together, folding the fingers as I speak.

"Please, sir," I manage meekly, politely. "please don't hurt my brother. He didn't mean to do whatever he did. He's only a child-only five years of age! I know he's sorry, so you don't have to punish him."

To my surprise, the soup ladle lowered. Was an angel looking out for me today? Did good finally triumph over evil? I offered silent thanks to God for His rare kindness and understanding. Since when was I, a humble house servant, able to know the compassion of divine intervention? Thrilled at my change in luck, a small smile graced my lips, the first genuine sign of happiness I have shown since mother's death.

"You see, Mokie's really a good boy, smart and sweet and never bad. He's always there when I need him, works hard; helps fix animals when they're sick-"

As quick as my happiness came, it escaped, like a Chinese dragon vanishing from a peasant's sight. One second, I was standing and listing my brother's many praises, the next, I was on my bottom, my backside rubbed raw by the cabinets I fell against. Stunned, I tried to recall how I got here and what just happened, but a piercing scream erupted behind me, and the memory was lost forever.

"No, don't!" poor Mokuba cried, "Don't! DON'T!"

Watching in horror and disgust, one of my hands shot out, only to be knocked away like a golf club batting a ball on the green. The blow hurt worse than an iron's burn, but I barely felt it. All I could feel were Mokie's screams in my ears, each sharp sound piercing my heart like an arrow shooting down an eagle. Pride and resolve to resist an outburst fading, I began crawling towards my sibling, determined to use the last of my strength to serve and protect my last living relative.

"Stop…hurting him!" I gasp, forcefully as I can muster. "He can't even defend himself against…you! Don't…do this! You don't…have to do this!"

Like always, my whimpers and begs were drowned out by an ocean of anger and bitterness. The waves of abuse kept crashing down, suffocating us with enough strength to down a buffalo. We were just baby deer in a setting that we didn't know or understand, forced to live in a human zoo with creatures that wished to eat us alive. Although we were products of vengeful deforestation, without a home, parents, or material possessions, we _did_ have each other, and that's all we knew we needed in order to survive.

Light-hearted with that fact in mind, thinking of my brother's love, I collapsed on top of him, curling my body around his. His scared, cherub face regarded me quizzically, mentally asking why I would do such a thing, why I would sacrifice my life to save his.

"Because I…love you, Mokie." I whisper to him softly, as softly as I remember mother whispering to me.

My heart skipped a beat every time I heard her speak, and a light, fuzzy glow resonated deep inside me as I cuddled next to her. I get that way when I'm sharing feelings with my brother, too. It must be that solid gold bond I have with him that makes my heart melt like chocolate on a loved one's tongue. And, as young and innocent as Mokuba is, he comprehends those emotions, almost better than I do. He proves it to me when our eyes meet, indigo and sapphire swirling together, uniting us in a great, grand sea of love and friendship sure to keep us swimming in each other's souls forever.

"I love you…my Mokie." I tell him again, reaching for his hand. When I find it, I give it a nice little reassuring squeeze. I'm not sure how much he believes me, but it's the best I can do for now. "I love you, and I-I don't want to see you…hurting."

His big, wet eyes still seem frightened, but less than they were before. I know he's listening to me. I know he understands me. Like a precious porcelain doll, he squeezes my hand back, his delicacy briefly fixing my broken smile.

"I know, Seto. I love you, too. I love you so much that I want the same thing for you."

"What's that?" I ask, hiding my face from the dreaded soup ladle.

A tear slips down his cheek, a crystal droplet unearthed over amethyst skin.

"To not see you hurting, either."

Too weak to wipe his tear away, I hold him against me, feeling a tear of my own join his as we wait out the storm. We may no longer have mother's love, our lavish estate, all the toys we used to play with or the library we spent all day at, but we do have, and always _will_ have, each other. To me, that is the best tale I've ever heard, one I helped create and even star in. Together, Mokuba and I will end this nasty chapter of our lives. This story will have an ending. And together, we'll see that other people know of it, too.


End file.
